Unsung Heroes
by GoldSeven
Summary: A day in the life of two New York paramedics. Set immediately before "A Clear and Present Danger", and featuring Peter Petrelli and his paramedic colleague Hesam. Canon.
1. A crash course in obstetrics

**Unsung Heroes**

**Setup**: A day in the life of an NYC paramedic. Featuring Peter Petrelli and Hesam Malek. Hesam's POV. Best described as a two-shot; it was becoming too long for a one-shot.

Set immediately before "A clear and present danger".

**A/N**: Probably my most meticulously researched fanfic yet. Still, there are bound to be loads of inaccuracies; so if you happen to be a paramedic or EMT, don't hesitate to point them out to me. ;) (Apart from things I had to take the way they were because the show did them like this - like Hesam declaring the crash victim dead in the street, which he definitely isn't allowed to do.)

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Heroes.

**Warning**: Some strong language, and a lot of violence.

As always, reviews and comments welcome!

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**Unsung Heroes**

**.**

"It's ten past seven. That's the second time this month, Malek." Field Supervisor Jackson was leaning in the doorframe of the EMT room when Hesam Malek, slightly out of breath and wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his dark-blue paramedic uniform jacket, arrived at the standby point. "Why is it that you can't be at work on time?"

Hesam could have given Jackson any number of excuses – starting with the slit tyres of his bike, which he'd only discovered this morning, to the New York City traffic at this hour and ending with the fact he'd finally got out of the taxi stuck in the traffic jam and ran that last mile – but decided that all of this wasn't going to help, so he put on a contrite expression and remained silent during Jackson's tirade, which didn't sound much different from the last. There were three other paramedics on duty at the standby point, all of whom were watching the outburst uneasily.

One of them finally spoke up. "Come on – it was only ten minutes." Hesam knew that the speaker's name was Peter; he'd only started work here a couple of weeks ago, and Hesam had never worked with him so far. He was not a complete rookie, having worked in some healthcare profession before, though Hesam couldn't remember which. Peter seemed to be the quiet type; he didn't talk much, least of all about himself.

Jackson did not appreciate being reprimanded, however quietly. He turned to Peter with a sour expression. "Maybe in hospice care, it doesn't matter if you're ten minutes late, or if a patient dies ten minutes sooner or later, Petrelli. In this line of work, it does. Don't think just because your brother's a U.S. senator that the rules don't apply to you."

Peter flushed angrily, and Hesam could tell that he was on his best way to make matters a lot worse for himself, but then Karen O'Neill, one of Peter's partners in the last few weeks, intervened. For that, she needed no more than a glance at Jackson and Peter each, but it was eloquent enough to stop Peter from saying whatever he'd had on his mind.

It also served the purpose of breaking up the tension between Jackson and Hesam. Karen was forty, older than Jackson, had worked for different EMS services all over the state for nearly twenty years, and held more of his respect than all the other paramedics and EMTs of Manhattan Division 1 combined. Jackson cast Hesam a glowering look and went back to business.

"DuPont's called in sick today," he told Hesam, in a more matter-of-fact voice than he had previously managed. "So I'm teaming you up with Petrelli. His shift ends at three pm; I'm still looking for a replacement until seven." He didn't wait for an answer, but left the ready room. There was a collective, if understated, sigh of relief as the door closed.

Nicholas Goldstein, the fourth paramedic on duty, was sitting on the couch, his feet on the table as he half-watched music videos on TV while Karen was trying to get the soda machine to work. The two of them were waiting for their ambulance to come in; they were to relieve James McPherson and Richie Gonzales in 671, who hadn't come back from their last call yet. "Don't mind the son of a bitch, Peter," he said with a grin. "You'll get used to him."

"He gets the job done." Karen sighed, gave the soda machine up as a bad job and picked up a magazine from the table. "It's OK, Peter. We wouldn't even know your brother was a senator if Jackson wasn't constantly reminding us."

"Sorry you got your share in that," Hesam now told Peter, whose reaction to being the centre of attention was to fall silent again. "It wasn't fair."

"Well, that's what it's like, innit?" Nicholas said, cheerfully. "Always remember what EMS stands for."

Both Hesam and Karen rolled their eyes at the rewarmed old joke, but Peter had apparently managed to stay clear of it so far, because he said, frowning, "Emergency Medical Service?"

"Every Minute Sucks," Nicholas corrected. "Karen, I can't believe you haven't told the poor kid. This ought to come right after the First Aid 101."

"Can count on you to clue him in, can't I?" she replied testily. "Kindly keep your burnout syndrome to yourself."

Nicholas grinned, but Hesam knew he was far from actual burnout syndrome. He'd seen it; more than once. The ones who had it didn't flaunt it.

"You're off to an early end of shift, then?" Hesam asked Peter.

Peter shrugged. "Depends on your point of view. I already did the night shift when Jackson asked me if I could cover for Andrew. Today's the only day I don't have classes. Retraining to EMT-P level. I count as Intermediate right now, except I can do IVs."

"That's good to have," Hesam said. "Jackson give you the ambulance keys?"

Peter pulled them from his pocket. "Yeah, I've already checked the rig too; just haven't gassed up, but it's still three-quarters full. It was a slow night."

Hesam gave Nicholas and Karen a wave. "Seeya guys later."

"You'll do fine," Karen told Peter as he and Hesam went out to the ambulance bay, and then she looked back and forth between Peter and the TV. "Hey – anyone ever tell you you totally look like that guy in the Fergie video?"

.

Some fifteen minutes later, they were en route to the Bellevue Hospital for a patient transfer. Hesam was driving; he usually did with DuPont, and it hadn't occurred to him to switch.

"There are worse calls to start the day," he told Peter. "I've driven Mrs Rogers to or from the Bellevue before. She gets her dialysis every Monday. Funny old lady. Funny in the good sense of the word." He looked at Peter with a grin. "Bet you're great with funny old ladies."

Peter looked back at Hesam with an arched eyebrow before he apparently decided that the joke had been meant in a good-natured way, and shared the grin.

"So, what made you switch over from hospice care to EMS?" Hesam asked conversationally. "You see a lot of paramedics getting nursing degrees, but not so much the other way round. Seems like pretty much the opposite to me in some regards."

"Pretty much," Peter answered, only answering the last part of Hesam's remark.

"Well, I can imagine that for a hospice…" Hesam stopped himself.

Peter gave a wry grin. "Nurse. You can say it. If you're gonna make a joke, chances are I've heard it."

"I wasn't going to. I really have a lot of respect for anyone working in hospice care. It must be tough, working with the same patient day after day, attaching yourself, when you know from the start they can't be saved."

"Yeah." Peter looked out at the crowded street. They were driving on a three – no lights and sirens. "That was one of my reasons. It's not that I ever felt I'd failed to save those people – that was never the point. But recently… a lot has happened that made me want to play a more… active part in what I'm doing."

"Saving the world, huh?" Hesam said lightly.

Peter gave a little chuckle. "Something like that."

They got out of the ambulance at the Bellevue to collect Mrs Rogers, and soon were off again to return her to the nursing home where she lived. Peter took over the wheel when the old lady flatly refused to have him sitting in the back with her, insisting on Hesam's familiar face. Hesam and Peter shared a shrug and a grin, and traded places.

The next call reached them at 9.30 AM, an hour after dropping off Mrs Rogers.

"Five-Nine, 55th to 10th Ave," came the dispatcher's voice crackling over the radio while Hesam filled in the run form. "Maternity call. Primipara, 38 weeks pregnant. Said she didn't have anyone to drive her to the hospital, and contractions coming every five minutes. Needs to be taken to Lenox Hill Hospital. Go on an easy two."

"59 here, we're on our way." Hesam put away papers and biro and looked over at Peter. "Did you have the basic Obstetrics course yet?"

"Next week," Peter said, looking slightly queasy. "Hospice nurses don't deliver babies."

Hesam grinned. "Well, nothing wrong with getting the basics today. Don't worry. Just follow my lead."

Peter pulled over to change direction, over to Midtown West, and keyed the lights and sirens. "On a two" meant lights and sirens, but stop at red lights. "How many – have you delivered any babies yet?"

"Three or four. I've helped deliver only the ones who absolutely couldn't wait. Most of the time, we make it to the hospital before that."

"Primipara means first-time mom?" Peter asked.

"Yes, so there's an even greater chance of her making it to the hospital before the baby comes. The first time I helped deliver a baby was a piece of cake. Mother was this cheerful Mexican woman who was being so relaxed about everything that it rubbed off on everyone else too. It was her third; we'd barely rolled her in before her husband was allowed to cut the umbilical cord."

Mia Cunningham, it turned out, was less cheerful than Hesam's Mexican third-time mom. She was waiting for the two paramedics in the hall of her small apartment, looking scared and telling them her husband was on a business trip, she had called him first, but he wouldn't be there for another four hours. Her due date was in two weeks, so she hadn't thought the baby would come that soon.

"It's OK," Peter told her as he and Hesam led her over to her bed and Hesam examined her. "We're here now. Don't worry; we'll get you to the hospital safe."

She calmed a little, but gave a wail when another contraction came.

"Amniotic sac's still intact," Hesam said after he'd finished his assessment. "Contractions coming in regular intervals. Baby's heart sounds looking good, but the head isn't engaged from what I can tell."

"That sounds about right," the young woman said, looking uneasy. "I had an appointment with my obstetrician two days ago, and she said it wasn't engaged."

"With contractions this strong, it will soon be, don't worry," Hesam reassured her. "Seems the little one just wanted to make use of all available space right until the end."

"It's not a problem?" Mia asked timidly.

"Only if your water breaks, and not even then – we'd just have to put you on the stretcher. It's mainly a problem if you have to get to the hospital without an ambulance. Your bag's packed?"

"No – yes," she replied. "I just packed some stuff." She indicated an overnight case standing near the door.

"I'll get it," Peter said.

Hesam helped her up. "Let's get you to the hospital, Ma'am."

There was an elevator in the apartment house, so they started walking her towards it carefully. Mia gave a gasp when her water broke as soon as they cleared the elevator, as if on cue. Peter cast Hesam a look of only mild alarm, for which Hesam commended him mentally.

"Ah, don't worry about that," Hesam told the young woman. "Least the caretaker can do, to clean that up."

Mia gave a breathless laugh, and then hung on Peter's arm as the next contraction started, which was evidently stronger than the last. Peter looked at Hesam. "Should we get the stretcher?"

"Yeah, we should. I'll stay with her; go get it."

Peter shouldered the bag and jogged off to the car, and returned a few minutes later with the stretcher. They put Mia on it, and quickly wheeled her to the ambulance.

Once inside, Hesam examined Mia again. "Cervix is at two inches; you're doing great." He then looked at Peter, deciding that what he had in mind now was safe. "You're staying in the back with her; I'll drive. You can do lines?"

Peter was careful not to let any apprehension show in front of Mia, and just nodded. Hesam patted the young woman on the shoulder. "See, I get to sit with the 87-year-old crazy bat, and he gets the nice company. Ain't that unfair?"

Both Peter and Mia laughed, and Hesam climbed out of the back door, secured it, and got into the driver's seat, quickly calling up the hospital over the radio to announce their coming. Through the open hatch between the cabin and the back, he could hear if anything went wrong, and could be there within seconds if Peter needed assistance. Right now, it didn't seem that he did. As a former nurse, there were a couple of things he could do even though a regular EMT-basic wouldn't be allowed to, like intravenous injections. From the back, he could hear that the contractions were coming in three-minute intervals now, but as he'd hoped, Peter was calmness personified.

"Hey," Hesam heard him ask after another contraction had passed. "You know what it'll be yet?"

"A girl," Mia replied, her voice definitely more shaky now than it had been.

"Got a name yet?" Peter asked.

"Emily," Mia answered. "Or I'm not sure yet, really."

Peter gave a chuckle. "You sure you want her to be one of four Emilies in first grade?"

"Maybe not – ah—" Mia was cut short, but this time, the contraction passed quickly. After a minute, she continued, "My husband suggested Harriet, but I couldn't stand the thought of people calling her Harry."

Peter laughed. "This is your chance then. Quickly give birth to your baby and name her before he knows. Or would he get mad?"

"Probably not. I think he's pretty much accepted that he isn't going to get his Harriet." She paused. "What do you think?

"Me? Uh – I don't have an idea, really." Peter sounded clearly taken aback, and Hesam bit back a laugh in the driver's compartment.

"You got any sisters?"

"Uh, no. Just a brother."

_Yes_, Hesam thought. _And you'd be surprised how often you see that brother on the news these days_. It was a strange thought, he reflected, that the brother of a U. S. senator was sitting in the back of an ambulance chatting about baby names to a frightened first-time mom. Not for the first time since he'd met Peter, he wondered how two brothers could be so different.

"You look Spanish, that right?" Mia was saying.

"Italian. Something like three quarters. Got it on both sides."

"I'm half-Irish," she replied. "You don't know any Irish girls' names?" Hesam could already hear her voice sounding strained as she asked the last question, and whatever Peter answered was lost with her outcry as the next contraction came.

Hesam knew immediately that something was wrong, by the sound of her scream, even before he heard Peter's urgent, "Hesam – I need help here!"

Hesam pulled the ambulance to a halt by the side of the street, lights flashing, and ran into the back to see that Mia was bleeding. It wasn't all blood; there was a lot of amniotic fluid there. Hesam knew there were several possible reasons for this, but they were neither equipped nor trained to deal with any of them. The main thing they could provide now was speed.

"Ma'am," he told Mia, who was beside herself with fright. "We're just five minutes from the Presbyterian if we're fast. We need to get you there at once." He looked at Peter. "You got a line in place?"

Peter nodded, just as Hesam saw the sixteen-gauge IV line neatly taped to the young woman's arm.

"Give her some lactated ringer's through that. Patch to the hospital to tell them we're coming. If anything changes, if she bleeds any more, tell me immediately."

He climbed back into the driver's seat and restarted the engine even before he was seated; he heard Mia whimpering for them to tell her what this meant, if her baby was going to be OK, and heard Peter doing his best to keep her calm, tell her everything was going to be all right, that they were only minutes away from the hospital.

The call had turned from routine to emergency, and going on a one, with lights and sirens, it was now possible to make good speed even in New York's cluttered traffic. Their patient had started hyperventilating, but Peter was trained to deal with that. Six long minutes later, they pulled up at the hospital's emergency department entrance. They were met by a medical team, who helped them transfer Mia Cunningham from the ambulance stretcher to a gurney. Hesam gave the triage nurse a quick report, and within a minute of their arrival, their patient was wheeled inside the building, leaving them both standing under a red and white emergency sign, their duty done, when it felt so far from done. Hesam was used to this, but looking at Peter, he knew exactly how the other man felt. Mia Cunningham had been their patient, they'd done all they could for her, but whatever happened next was not their responsibility anymore, and it felt impossible just to walk back to the ambulance and drive away again.

"You did really well there," he told Peter. "We did all we could, got her here fast. It'll probably all be fine."

Peter nodded, but he looked absent.

They stood there for a couple of minutes, then Hesam drove the ambulance clear of the entrance and pulled up at a temporary parking space a few yards away. Then they went back inside to do the paperwork. Hesam let Peter write up the run report this time, giving him some input here and there.

"What day is it today?" Peter asked. "The thirteenth?"

"Fourteenth," Hesam said.

Peter gave a little snort as he wrote it down. "Fourteenth of June, 2007, huh?" He offered no explanation of why this was significant.

Afterwards, they both sat in silence for a time, looking back at the emergency department entrance every once in a while, sharing each other's thoughts even though neither of them said a word.

"I always check the hospital's website," Hesam finally said.

"Hm?" Peter asked.

"They all got websites where you can look up each day's newborns. OK, I don't _always_ check them. Most of the time I forget, to be honest. But it's really one of the few ways that allow you to reconnect with whoever you worked with in any given day. Aside from the obituaries."

"That's the weird thing, isn't it?" Peter said thoughtfully. "You brush with someone's life on the day he or she will remember for a long time – if he has any chance to remember – and they'll remember us much longer than we'll remember them. For us… it's just all in a day's work."

"Most of the patients will remember the uniform and the function more than anything. Or maybe not. What Irish name did you give Mia, by the way?"

Peter stared at another ambulance pulling out of the driveway. "Caitlin."

The way he said it made Hesam curious, but something in Peter's face told him not to pry.


	2. I should have been stronger

**2**

2:30 PM marked their sixth call that day. It also marked Peter's and Hesam's third unsuccessful attempt at having lunch.

Since leaving the Presbyterian, they had been called to the East Village to take a man to the hospital who was complaining about chest pain, and who had suffered a myocardial infarction before; then they had done another patient transfer to an asthma clinic.

After they had delivered him to the Bellevue, they'd driven up to Central Park, where a thirty-five year old man had collapsed playing soccer. While they were en route, they heard a Basic Life Support car – with just two basic level EMTs – being dispatched to a motor vehicle accident on 1st Avenue, as there was currently no paramedic unit available.

The man in Central Park somewhat feebly protested that he was fine, while his buddies had stood around laughing at him. Hesam would have preferred to take him, but since the man absolutely didn't want to go, they couldn't take him, so they just have him sign a refusal and cleared from the call. Hesam was not surprised that, the instant they'd been cleared, dispatch asked them to come to the assistance of the EMT's on the 1st Avenue MVA.

Hesam cast his sandwich on the dashboard a longing look but acknowledged, and hit the lights and sirens.

"This is the big bad one," he told Peter with a sidelong glance. "Had one of those yet?"

"I did a cardiac arrest last week. And a smaller MVA before that."

They were only a few blocks away, and reached the crash site within minutes, but since they'd been called on scene so late, the accident had happened close to thirty minutes ago. Hesam grabbed his equipment and jumped out, and Peter followed his lead. Police and fire department were long on scene, and had taped off a large portion of the street. The other ambulance, 833, was parked near the wreck of a motorbike; a convertible had crashed headlong onto the wall of a building on the corner. There was no fire, but some spilt fuel splattered across the site, obviously from the motorbike. Hesam could see the FDNY working on the convertible; the two EMTs were also from the fire department, and were crouching on the ground. Hesam had never met either of them, but in New York City, this was the usual.

Hesam sent Peter to get a report from the fire fighters while he went over to the EMTs with his airway kit. They'd removed the motorcyclist's helmet, rolled him on the long board to immobilize his spine, and put him on the monitor. His pulse was weak and thready, and his breathing was erratic. Neither of the EMTs was allowed to intubate or put in an IV line, and relief was evident in their faces as they saw Hesam. They had been trying to ventilate him using a non-rebreather mask and the ambu-bag, but as soon as Hesam got out his stethoscope to listen to the man's chest, he heard at once that his trachea was obstructed and he wasn't getting enough air.

Hesam listened to their quick report as he got out the laryngoscope from his airway kit and prepared to intubate the man in order to get some oxygen into him.

Just then, Peter returned with a report on the convertible. "It's bad," he said bleakly. "Front of the car's been pushed together, some twenty to thirty inches of intrusion. Driver's alone in the car. Legs and abdomen are pinned, prob'ly multiple fractures and I'm guessing bleeding both internal and external. Serious injuries to his face and upper body. I could get to him through the windshield, but barely. Nothing I could do without extricating him. I couldn't get a pulse." He turned to stare at the firemen working on the wreck with flame cutters. Hesam realised heavily that he'd have to contend with a lot of misplaced helper's syndrome now. The day came inevitably for every EMT, when you had to accept that, if you couldn't save two lives, you had to choose the one that was more likely to be saved.

"You can't do a thing back there without a flame cutter," he told Peter reasonably. "I need your help here. Get a line in, OK?"

Peter had to shake himself in order to concentrate on the patient at hand, but then he unzipped his bag and got out a 14 gauge catheter, and went in search of a vein while Hesam passed the tube between the man's vocal chords using the laryngoscope. He had one of the EMTs ventilate as he checked for lung sounds, and found he was in. The patient's cardiac rhythm improved at once, and Hesam saw some colour returning to his face.

Just then, he heard Peter curse as he missed the IV. Hesam guessed that this didn't happen very often, especially since their patient had huge veins that any paramedic might dream of.

"Just try the other arm," he told Peter calmly, and took over pressing a 4 by 4 compress on the man's arm. A haematoma was beginning to form where Peter had gone right through the vein with his needle.

Peter got the IV on his second attempt, and Hesam spiked a bag of saline. "Keep bagging him," he told one of the EMTs. "And get him to the hospital as quickly as possible."

He helped the EMTs place the board with the patient on their stretcher and secure him, and then turned to see Peter standing and watching the firemen working on the wreck, his jaw working.

Hesam lightly touched Peter's arm, and the other man flinched. "Get the long board and stretcher from the rig," he told him. "That way, we can take him and run as soon as they have him extricated."

He didn't think it would be necessary. Judging by the state the car was in, the time that had passed, and Peter's assessment earlier, there was almost no way the driver was still alive.

Peter was about to go back to the ambulance when they heard the firemen at the wreck yell for a medic. They had him free.

Hesam helped Peter extricate the convertible's driver. Peter seemed to have made the man's survival his personal concern. It was a quarter past three, well past Peter's end of shift, but neither of them gave this any thought.

Hesam knew at once that it was no use. As Peter was working feverishly, pulling the man's mangled legs from under the shredded hood and laying him cautiously down on the street with Hesam's help, Hesam searched for a pulse but wasn't surprised when he didn't find any. The man's face was cyanotic, turning purple where his head had lain against the wheel. Hesam guessed he had been killed almost instantly. The back of his head was matted with blood, and there was a clear hole in the cranium. IIL, Hesam thought. Injury incompatible with life.

If they had been able to get to him sooner, they would have taken him, put him in the rig, and raced him off to the hospital, but it was too late, much too late.

Peter was still working like a madman, readying the bag valve mask for resuscitation. Hesam wordlessly took it, nodding to Peter to perform CPR. He could have told him to stop right there, that it was no use, that circulation must have stopped more than half an hour ago, but he realised that Peter wouldn't want to hear any of it, and needed to experience it for himself.

Minutes passed, Peter pressing down the crash victim's chest and telling Hesam to squeeze the bag every five seconds, the intervals in which he said "breathe" becoming shorter under the stress after a while. As Hesam had expected, nothing happened, and still Peter wouldn't cease his efforts. Hesam suddenly felt as if he was part of a bizarre drill, with the long-dead man in front of them replacing the more off-the-rack dummy, while Peter was imploring him to breathe.

"Peter," Hesam finally said, quietly. "It's over."

Peter still continued to press down on the man's chest, seeming completely oblivious to his surroundings. "No, I can save him."

Hesam slowly let the bag valve and mask sink to the ground. "It's no use. He's dead."

Even this didn't stop Peter from continuing with CPR, and Hesam finally gripped his arm, in order to stop this gruesome scene.

"Hey."

Peter cast him an almost startled glance and apparently came to his senses. Hesam held his eyes for a moment, then Peter looked away.

"Dammit…" he whispered. "I could have saved him."

"No, you couldn't!" Hesam replied firmly as they both got to their feet. He was aware that nothing he could say was going to stop Peter from blaming himself for the man's death, but even so, he felt the need to make it somewhat easier. "He bled out in the car."

"Should have got to him faster…" Peter said, staring at the blood on the ground as he pulled off his gloves.

Hesam knew the routine, he'd seen it with other non-seasoned paramedics. He'd probably done it too, once. "He was pinned in there!" he argued.

"So I should have been stronger." Peter finally looked at him, with an expression that made it clear he actually meant what he said. Hesam remembered the sight of him tearing at the driver's door for all it was worth, and in Peter's eyes, he saw deep, personal failure.

"You can't save everyone." Hesam realised it was stale comfort. It wasn't as if Peter didn't know this, or hadn't heard it before. In his classes, probably also from Karen or Nicholas. Definitely from Nicholas.

Peter remained standing there for another few moments, seemingly struggling for something to say. Then, he turned his face away and started trudging back to the truck

"Should have been stronger," Hesam heard him murmur.

.

Peter didn't drive back with Hesam, but took a cab from the crash site after helping to pack their things back together and stash them in the ambulance. He'd received a phone call from somebody named Claire which seemed to have unsettled him, not long after the dead man's body had been taken away in a hearse. Hesam had told him to go. His shift was long over, and Hesam would just drive back to pick up his replacement. Cleanup and restocking of the rig was negligible, since their patient had never seen it from the inside. Peter had already done most of the paperwork for the day as well.

Hesam felt sorry for Peter, who'd had one of the worst days at work that you could get in this job, and then must have encountered another, probably personal, emergency to top it off. Hesam would have liked to offer some more comfort, even though he knew that it probably wouldn't have been much use.

The next morning, before going off to work, Hesam remembered to check the Presbyterian Hospital website for the newborns. He didn't really expect them to have yesterday's births up already, but smiled when he found Caitlin Harriet Cunningham, 6 pounds, 5 ounces and 19 inches long born on June 14. He looked forward to telling Peter later.

Peter, however, didn't show up at work at all.


End file.
